Blood
by 60sec400
Summary: Damian admits something to someone he's jealous of. They don't understand, but then, it wasn't really for them, was it?


**Heyo folks, this is just a real short ficlet from a prompt from my (Dick Grayson) discord server. The lovely Eastonia gifted me this prompt, which is now here for you! I think I veered from it a bit but, like it's fine.**

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"Grayson is too trustworthy, I think," Damian said aloud, "but I suppose it is me he's trusting, so I'll let it slide."

He leaned back again the wall, sliding down so that he could rest his chin on his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs. His head thumped back against the freshly painted walls of the room. The light was off, although that's because Damian hadn't been able to find the switch on the wall; the apartment wasn't a new buy, but the room had previously been for storage. Damian was unfamiliar with it's lay-out.

"It could've been Todd," he said, "Or Drake. I suppose Cassandra or Brown would've been… acceptable, but he chose me."

He glanced over to his right, thinking about what next to say. It didn't matter, anyway, the words meant nothing. No meaning behind them. They would be spoken and then gone and forgotten. He could deal with that; gone and forgotten was the best for words meant never to be heard.

Light from the streetlamp outside let orange slats sit on the hardwood in front of him, bouncing low light enough around the room for him to see. Green eyes were focused on him directly, dark hair already thick and curling around the baby's face. He stared back, eyes adjusting to the low orange light so that he could see the outline of the small human not too far from him.

She was tiny, tinier than he had ever thought possible, and completely vulnerable. And Grayson had left her with Damian.

He reached over with his hand, sliding it through the small beams of her crib, and touched her hand. Tiny fingers curled around his index finger, gripping it tight. Biting his lip, Damian slid a bit closer, keeping his hand still, but leaning his head now against the crib instead of the wall.

"You're the blood child," he whispered quietly to himself, saying aloud words never meant to be heard. She wouldn't remember this conversation. She was too young, a baby, a child. The blood child.

"You're the blood child," he said again, a little louder this time. "Everything I had ever held dear hinged on that ideal," Damian admitted. "Everything I defined great about myself was being the blood child."

Damian glanced at the orange slats on the floor, playing with the baby's little fingers with his hand. "I always," he gulped, "My father died when I met him."

He remembered that time. He'd been, in the beginning, masking nervousness and fear with haughty confidence. He'd met his father, pretended to be unimpressed when the only thing he could think about was that it was finally happening. The ideal, the dream, he'd lived his whole life hearing about was in front of him– and then he'd died.

And to think Damian had ever thought Grayson was second place.

His father had been angry and distrustful. He didn't listen, even still. He did not understand. Damian knew he got angry. His father never bothered to understand his anger.

"My father died," he said, "and I was placed with your father."

Grayson never wavered, not in front of Damian at least. He'd been next to Damian, explaining. God, Damian had only ever been told things before. Never explained. Grayson explained why he was upset when Damian did upset him, he listened and understood and told Damian he loved him.

Every day, for a year and a half, Damian was chosen.

His father distrusted him. His mother thought him a weapon. And yet, Grayson had made the choice to stick with Damian. He knew better now, but at the time… perhaps, Drake had been right. What had Damian done to deserve Grayson?

"He was good, great even," Damain explained quietly to the baby, "I told him we were the best. I still stand by that. He took me in and let me Robin, gave me Robin. Grayson made me family."

Robin had been an unexpected gift, even if Damian had thought he deserved at the time; he'd thought he was the only one worthy of the title.

"Family isn't always made… that way," he said slowly, "Father's family showed me that."

He'd rejected them. Rejected Grayson. Drake had been gone most of Damian's tenure as Grayson's Robin. Todd had been nearly nonexistent. But Grayson had stayed. And eventually, Damian had too.

He had gotten to the point where he didn't want to go back. Where he enjoyed Grayson's company and their talks, drawing with his headphones in, going and doing things like eating out together, being Robin to… to the best Batman. A better, clearer Batman. Damian's favorite memory was Grayson and him, both sick, eating ice cream and watching reruns of a house renovation show. It was so.

Domestic.

He sighed.

"I learned family was more than that. And I was given the taste of a good family, even if it was just Grayson and I. It was good," he said, "And I finally had a good father."

That was the first time he'd admitted it.

He'd thought it. Many times. But he'd never spoken the words aloud. He'd been afraid. Afraid he'd be seen as ungrateful. Grayson didn't have his biological father anymore. Neither did Drake. Neither did Bruce Wayne. And here Damian was, birth father in front of him, and wishing it had been someone else.

How ungrateful was he?

Before, Damian wouldn't have minded being ungrateful. He'd deserved the world.

Now, he felt guilty. Now, Damian knew he deserved better. But better was in front of him, and he had no claim.

"Father, my real father, he tries," Damian said. "But he's a candle to… to your father's sun. But he doesn't understand. I wish I knew what Grayson had, when he grew up with my father. Some part of me wishes I could have had that. But then, I realized," he tapped her little nose, "I did have it, with Grayson."

He leaned back against the crib. "But now… now there's you," he said softly, "the blood child." He glanced back over at her again. Green eyes blinked blearily up at him, still strangely focused on his words as if she could understand them.

"He's so proud of you," Damian whispered, "And his pride in you, I can say, is a very wonderful thing to have."

Did Damian ever have to work for Grayson's pride? For his trust?

Probably.

But did he let Damian know it? Feel guilty about it?

Never.

It just was.

He was jealous. Some small part of him, an ashamed, guilty part, wished it were him. He wished he could have both, have everything. But he couldn't. He was a blood child. But that didn't matter anymore, did it? And that was the real kicker. It didn't matter. Now. He'd learned it didn't matter, and now he wanted what he couldn't have. He'd gotten a taste of it.

"If you'll have me," Damian said quietly, again, looking her in the eyes, "If you'll have me, can I be an… unofficial part? We can make a pact. I'm asking, if I can be your brother. Your father… he's a good example. I wish it could be better than unofficial," he admitted, "But he cares, I know he does. And we both…"

They both wished things could be different.

They'd never admitted it to each other. But Damian knew. That's what mattered. Did Grayson know? When Damian's father had returned, Grayson had pushed the big brother idea. He'd pushed it too hard, trying to convince both himself and Damian that that was all it had ever been.

"So," he cleared his throat, "I'm your older brother now. My first lesson to you is that blood doesn't matter. It's funny. When I thought the opposite, it was very self-serving. Now, I suppose it is too." He patted her hand. "But for the better."

"My second lesson to you," he said, "Is that, I might not be good at talking like… like your father is. But I do make a good listener. As your older brother, I will be a good listener."

The baby gurgled and he leaned forward. "Do you need anything?"

In the low light, she smiled at him and yawned. He sat back and sighed.

"It's unofficial," he said to her, "but home is with those who care. Who love you. And I know, _I know._ With him, I have never doubted it."

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